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"Catheryn's right, Alexander," Rialto said, loud voice washing over them, coming suddenly up behind Cat's shoulder - having strolled there, as any foolish being below Cat's level would - and plopping his chin onto it without a second's thought or even bothering to move her hair. An arm hanging off her other shoulder and two identical faces bearing very different expressions. One a smile, the other blasé. He could mimic Cat's, but the moment Cat wore anything less than a face full of scorn, mainly at Rialto, then he was getting out all thirty-six of his knives, because that meant she was possessed. Anyone mortal might find it disconcerting, but they were dealing with immortals and battle-ravaged veterans, now. A coin flipping heads ten times in a row wouldn't make any one of them blink. "You can't just come out and tell them your name, Alexander, that's the first thing they need to target you. Right, Marko?"
He hid none of his preteen enjoyment while dragging out their names through the dirt, and only slightly metaphorically. This was just how they did it in San Creado. If one goes down, you all go down; if not willingly, the others around you hanging onto your ankle to prevent escape. You know, loyalty.
If there was anything to the stranger - the wild eyes, the mess of a five o'clock shadow, the frustration folding itself in every strip of muscle, the horse beside them that could probably fire its own horse catcher - two of the group had homed in on it. Something below the surface simmered, a thin tension as fragile as a bubble.
He tilted his head to the side, blinking at the stranger, before he held up his hand. "Coach, we need a timeout. This one sprained his leg." This one was Marko, who he leaned towards, even more indiscreetly, like team players bowing their heads together, and muttered (downright said, really, with all the subtlety Rialto put into it), "Are we the fucking bitches?"
He hid none of his preteen enjoyment while dragging out their names through the dirt, and only slightly metaphorically. This was just how they did it in San Creado. If one goes down, you all go down; if not willingly, the others around you hanging onto your ankle to prevent escape. You know, loyalty.
If there was anything to the stranger - the wild eyes, the mess of a five o'clock shadow, the frustration folding itself in every strip of muscle, the horse beside them that could probably fire its own horse catcher - two of the group had homed in on it. Something below the surface simmered, a thin tension as fragile as a bubble.
He tilted his head to the side, blinking at the stranger, before he held up his hand. "Coach, we need a timeout. This one sprained his leg." This one was Marko, who he leaned towards, even more indiscreetly, like team players bowing their heads together, and muttered (downright said, really, with all the subtlety Rialto put into it), "Are we the fucking bitches?"
© MADI
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